not my breakup

i watched these two young gay guys break up across the street. the red t shirt was breaking up with the keffiyeh. the fight happened because they were at cubbyhole, the lesbian bar down my street, and red shirt was talking to a girl and keffiyeh came up and said "this is my boyfriend." this infuriated red shirt because apparently keffiyeh does stuff like that all the time. i didn't really understand what that stuff is. it was really ugly when red shirt was crying and yelling "don't touch me!" while keffiyeh was caressing his face and trying to kiss him. red shirt was angry and preachy and unequivocal and looked like he was having as good a time as one can have breaking up with someone. he lectured keffiyeh, saying "just because you say you love me, or whatever, doesn't mean it's okay" and made dark predictions about keffiyeh's life, telling him he needed "get his shit together," though he personally didn't care anymore and couldn't be responsible for him. he had put up with his shit for nine months. it was really theatrical, keffiyeh grabbing red's arm, the outdoor voices, the shrill, righteous, quavering and desperate outbursts. it happened between west 4th and greenwhich avenue along 12th street, ending in front of 239 west 12th under a scaffolding. i watched from my window, later grabbing cigarettes as an excuse to sit on my stoop to get a better view. they parted going in opposite directions, red shirt turning onto greenwich, but keffiyeh meaningfully turned and ran after him, flip flops slapping. it was hideous, i wonder if anything that loud inevitably creates such a gigantic gulf between the feelings of the actors and the audience; their voices projected too far from the depth of their emotions, echoing in the ears of people who will only remember them as red and keffiyeh. it was an authentically sad and violent moment and i was fascinated in the coldest way.